


Fudge Means I Love You

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: Pastry Chef AU [1]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Pastry Chefs, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3105257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, Simon falls in love with a cake. Then, he gets turned on by the bloke who made it. Or vice versa, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fudge Means I Love You

The cake is impressive. It’s tiered, chocolate and orange and nuts and delicate scrollwork, and Simon kind of wants to stick a finger in the frosting. But he can’t, because finally, the doors have opened and the crowds of talent scouts and brides-to-be and people who just love cake (these are Simon’s favorites, and he still counts himself among their numbers) flood the long hall. He watches as, predictably, the cupcakes are targeted first, but there are enough customers to go around and soon both his table and the one to his left, the one with the beautiful chocolate monstrosity, are surrounded.  
Simon deals with tastings and questions and orders, gets a dab of powdered sugar on his cheek somehow, wishes Penny had chosen a different day for her and Agatha’s first wedding anniversary so she could deal with the pushy people. But an anniversary is an anniversary, and he was the one who told Penny to take the long weekend off.  
What glimpses he catches of the bloke to his left show him that said bloke looks calm and collected and not a hair is out of place. Bastard, Simon thinks without rancor, because the bloke is really good looking. And yes, Simon prefers girls, but he’s, like Pen says, “secure in his bisexuality”.  
Finally the crowds thin and disappear into the next room, where there’s lunch waiting on buffet tables, and this really is the fanciest show Simon’s ever been to. He heaves a sigh as the last yuppie twenty-something leaves the hall. It’s so hard.  
“First time?” The bloke- might as well capitalize it, really- the Bloke leans back against the wall and gives Simon a once over. Simon can hear himself being judged, for the sugar on his cheek and the colorful logo on his apron and his posture, probably. The Bloke looks like the kind of bloke who went to a public school, and not as a charity/scholarship case like Simon.  
“No, actually,” Simon snaps, and the Bloke’s eyebrows shoot up, and Simon wants to apologize and kick him at the same time. “I’ve been running my shop for three years now.”  
“I meant, is this your first time being exposed to the maddened crowd that is rich middle class wannabe hipsters,” the Bloke says, calm as anything. “But I suppose the look of defeat says it all, really.”  
“It’s not defeat. It’s just… exhaustion. My partner isn’t here, and she usually deals with the customers.” Simon slumps against the wall. He considers his options- dignity vs. his aching feet- and slides down to sit on the floor.  
“That’s kind of mean, taking the day of a big show off.”  
Simon glares up at the Bloke, who has no right to judge like that. “She’s on an anniversary trip with her wife.” He dares the Bloke to judge this, too, Agatha’s and Penny’s happiness, his two best friends and the way they love each other.  
Surprisingly, the Bloke’s expression lightens and he sits down next to Simon- neatly, gracefully, elegantly. FML.  
“Your shortcake looks good,” he offers, and Simon, reluctantly, beams. He doesn’t like the Bloke, but he loves his shortcake.  
“I like the chocolate cake,” he says in return.  
The Bloke laughs. “Which one?”  
“Oh, um. I didn’t get to see most of them. I meant the big one, with the candied oranges.” Simon gestures at the towering cake, which is missing half of itself. It’s not usual to serve the display cake, but maybe the Bloke’s a bit unusual. God, Simon’s falling hard and fast, and he still thinks the Bloke is a bit of an arse.  
“Thank you,” the Bloke says, and he looks truly pleased. “I call it the Monster.”  
“Good name.” Simon gets to his feet and offers a hand, out of habit and politeness, realizing only halfway that he isn’t sure he wants to touch the Bloke.  
The Bloke’s hand is dry and cool, and he pulls himself up easily and gracefully. God.  
“Speaking of good names,” he says, cocky once more and Simon wishes he found that less attractive, but what can he say, he’s got a bit of a type. “What’s yours?”  
“Snow. Simon Snow.”  
The Bloke grins. “Really?”  
“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s weird.” Simon wants to cover up the logo in his chest, the little pun he and Penny thought was so funny. P.S. We’ve Got Cake. He knows that he stands out in the crowd of more traditional and more skilled pastry chefs, knows that it can be a good thing (“it’s a good thing, you’re unique, you’re special,” Penelope says in his mind.) But right now, it feels wrong. He feels like a kid.  
“No, I mean, it’s just, my name’s Pitch.” Simon looks back at the Bloke, sees him shrug. “Tyrannus Basilton Pitch, wait for it… The Third.”  
Simon gapes for a moment before remembering that Pitch is very attractive and he’s making a fool out of himself and blushing. “I’m sorry.”  
“Just call me Baz. It’s better for everyone involved.” Baz sticks his hands into his apron pockets. This is the first time Simon’s seen anyone make that sexy. “I should start preparing my table for after lunch.” He strolls off to the door tucked behind a huge urn, which made bringing in the cakes unnecessarily complicated in the morning. “Are you coming, Snow?”  
Oh my god yes please, runs through Simon’s head, and he’s lucky that years of friendship with Penelope have created some kind of filter between his brain and his mouth. He jogs, blushing, to Baz. “Call me Simon.”  
“No, I don’t think so,” Baz says cheerfully.  
“Prat,” Simon says, too fondly for such a short acquaintance, and Baz’s smirk quirks into something else.  
“You’ve got powdered sugar on your cheek,” he says.  
“I don’t know how it got there,” Simon says very honestly, and wipes it off with the back of his hand. Then he wipes his hand on Baz’s black apron.  
“You, Simon Snow, are an asshat,” Baz says. He brushes at the white powder on his shoulder and only manages to spread it to the logo on his front.  
“I don’t know, I kind of like it,” Simon says, pretending to inspect the logo. He thinks it looks like snow in the night, but that’s one sappy thought he’s keeping to himself.  
“It looks like snow, of course you like it,” Baz says, and Simon blushes and starts laughing. It infects Baz, and they can’t stop.  
Throughout the afternoon, they both present smiling, happy faces, standing out from the no-I-don’t-make-that-and-why-would-you-even-want-it-please-just-stop faces behind the other stands. If there’s added appeal in the banter they occasionaly exchange, or in the way Baz dumps a huge slice of chocolate cake on Simon’s table, or in the blush that reddens on Simon’s face and neck when Baz licks his pomegranate shortcake-sticky fingers, well.  
And when Penelope comes back she wants to know why Simon’s always sending and getting cake boxes and crowing over his victories over Baz. And then she wants to taste the cakes.  
And then she wants to meet Baz, because she knows flirting when she sees it, even if it is layered with pistachio cream and coated in cocoa powder.


End file.
